


heard the echo from his secret hideaway

by GreyishBlue



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: But it's sure a plot device now, Fluff, Laundry, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Why did Steve Rogers own a track suit? Who knows.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/pseuds/GreyishBlue
Summary: Bucky’s having a hell of a fucking day. He’s really got to do laundry, bad enough that he’s borrowing his roommate’s weird work out gear. Their machine is broken, because apparently kevlar doesn’t go in the washer, Steve. So he’s lugging a duffel bag of dirty clothes down the street, just in perfect time to catch an adorable grandmother type being accosted by some hooligans.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 19
Kudos: 121
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	heard the echo from his secret hideaway

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Winterhawk Bingo Square: Track Suit Mafia (I think this is my 44th square fill?)
> 
> Title from 21 Pilots. (I'm pretty sure I've used a different part of this song before. Not sorry.)

Bucky’s having a hell of a fucking day. He’s really got to do laundry, bad enough that he’s borrowing his roommate’s weird work out gear. Their machine is broken, because apparently kevlar doesn’t go in the washer, Steve. So he’s lugging a duffel bag of dirty clothes down the street, just in perfect time to catch an adorable grandmother type being accosted by some hooligans. Oh god, if he’s thinking of them as hooligans, he’s definitely getting old. Lamenting for his twenties set aside, he goes to help, and manages to knock one of the dudes down with a well placed punch. The other one bolts when his friend hits the ground, and Bucky chooses to believe his murder glare helped the idiot’s decision. Thug #1 doesn’t stick around either, eyes wide as he does an impressive crab-like scurry down an alleyway. 

Just before Bucky can head over to help granny to her feet, his feet are swept out from under him and he tumbles onto the ground, his back hitting with a thump hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The world spins for a moment, and when he can focus again, it resolves into the face and upper body of a really pissed off looking blonde dude. Pointing… a fucking bow and arrow at him? Jesus! Bucky’s first instinct is to raise his hands in surrender, but the guy is straddling his chest, knees pressed solidly into his biceps, so the best he gets is kind of a wiggle.

“Don’t futzin’ move. I swear to god you guys are getting stupider every week. Attacking little old ladies right in front of my building? Come on man.” The guy looks exhausted, like he’s had this conversation with someone a hundred times, and knows he’s going to have to have it again immeasurable times more.

“Um. Mister, can you please put down the… the bow?” Bucky has no idea what the guy is talking about so he just focuses on the immediate issue, which is a very sharp looking arrow way too close to his face.

The bow wavers away from him as he speaks, and the blonde tilts his head in the most comical ‘confused puppy’ face Bucky has ever seen, which would be really cute if it wasn’t attached to some paleolithic weaponry. 

“Did you just call me mister? And. You said please?” 

“I try to be really fucking polite when there’s an Arrow. Pointed. At. My face.”

Blondie lets the bow sag entirely down and looks over at granny of the year, who finally speaks up with a little rattling cough, “Oh, Clint, dear. That young man helped me! Stop pointing your toys at him and let him up.”

Bucky relaxes a little without the threat of impending shish-ka-bobbing, takes a moment to look up at the now thoroughly confused man that’s still definitely sitting on him. The anger draining from the guys face is visible, as is the embarrassment crawling back up in a bright red blush. Bucky can't help himself, he shoots his most cocky grin upward just to watch it affect the guy, and god does it ever. 

Clint scrambles off in an impressively uncoordinated tangle of limbs, a stark contrast to the quick efficient way he'd gotten Bucky on the ground. After an awkward moment just staring at one another, Clint offers a hand to help Bucky up. Clint’s hands are calloused and bigger than his own, oddly gentle around his scraped knuckles. 

Bucky is lifted with what feels like comical ease, his stomach does a little swoop and he just manages to stop himself from acting out some harlequin romance novel cover gone wrong. Instead of falling into Clint’s arms when he overbalances, he just gets a solid grip on one to steady himself. 

Clints eyes drag back to his at that, blush still riding high in his cheeks. “Futz. I am… really sorry, dude. You’re dressed like, well, um. There’s a gang,” he trails off, scans their immediate surroundings before taking a deep breath to continue, “I thought you were one of those dudes harassing Martha. Sorry. Again.”

Bucky feels more thoroughly charmed as Clint bumbles his way through the apology, looking shy in a way that contrasts with his earlier confidence sharply. Bucky’s smile widens. He thinks it’s sweet, and incredibly weird, that Clint is out here defending little old ladies with a bow and arrow in the middle of Bed-Stuy. He hadn’t done any actual damage, except maybe to Steve’s old work out clothes, which frankly deserved to be harmed anyway for pure garishness. He takes pity on the guy and says, “No worries, man! I’m okay. My laundry is a little worse off, but I was taking it to wash anyway. Just maybe don’t point a bow at me again and we’re good, yeah?”

Clint’s face lights up at that, and his body goes from hunched and awkward to oddly graceful in one startling moment. “Got it!” Then he’s gathering up his bow and Bucky’s laundry bag, herding Bucky into the front door of the building before he can really protest or ask what’s going on. There’s a laundry room at the end of the hall that Clint drags them down, seemingly unaware that he’s holding Bucky’s hand to usher him to the washing machines. He realizes their point of contact only when he goes to wave at the machine with a flourish and sees their clasped fingers.

By this point Bucky is full on giggling, unable to stop at the look of confusion and the new even prettier shade of red Clint is blushing now. He gives the blonde’s hand a soft squeeze before letting go and reaching out for his laundry bag, which Clint is still awkwardly holding over his shoulder, mud from the street spread to Clint’s rumpled white t-shirt. Clint manages a soft shocked “Oh!” before handing the bag over. There’s something about the shift of Clint, how he goes from cocksure and confident to blushing and hopeless in moments. It’s got Bucky off kilter, but in a way he likes. 

Figuring the day can’t get any weirder and he might as well lean into it, Bucky gently bumps Clint out of the way of the washer with a hip. He sends his best charmer grin back over his shoulder at the blonde, is rewarded with a smile like sunshine. Bucky needs a deep calming breath to focus on his laundry, he mostly manages. Clint mutters something about checking on Martha and slinks out to let Bucky do his thing.

He shoots Steve a text to try and encompass his morning so far, chuckling to himself because there’s no way to write it that doesn’t sound a little batshit. He finishes composing the most ridiculous version and hits send just in time to see Clint wandering back in.   
The blonde has a coffee mug in each hand, topped by little paper plates holding pastries that look more buttery and flaky than they have a right to. He’s got the shy look on him again when he offers up one of them to Bucky, who takes it happily.

Bucky mumbles a noise that can vaguely be interpreted as ‘thank you’ as he stuffs half the pastry in his mouth in one go. There’s a sort of grunt from Clint in response, which he manages with the mug in his face, gulping coffee down like it’s gone out of style. They demolish the food and coffee in comfortable silence after that.

Clint perches himself on the edge of a table, apparently happy to just hang out while Bucky waits on his clothes. They lapse into some of the weirdest small talk Bucky’s ever been a part of, he finds his face is sore from laughter by the time the washing machine gives out a loud buzz. Halfway through the next cycle, they’ve migrated to sit next to each other. Their thighs press together, Bucky can feel the shift of Clint’s muscles as he swings his legs idly under the table. Ostensibly it was to show Clint a picture of Alpine on his phone, but they’d swapped pet pictures a while ago and neither made a move to gain any personal space. It’s comfortable. 

It takes Bucky just until the drying cycle to get Clint’s phone number. If he’d thought the last few smiles were sunshine, the one he gets at that is utterly blinding. Joy fits on Clint’s face in an astonishing way, crinkling lines around those sky blue eyes and softening the angle of his mouth. Bucky stops himself from leaning forward into a kiss, because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least get the guy out on a date first, but it’s a struggle.

When the laundry is finally done Clint escorts him back out to the street, complete with an elbow to hold and a gallant flourish of a non-existent cape when they’re back on the sidewalk. They part with a few longing gazes at one another. Bucky starts his not-so-long trek back home, sends Clint a quick text before he’s even halfway so he can figure out when to take that adorable trainwreck out. The week is really starting to look up.


End file.
